


Syncopate

by Siria



Category: Sherman's March, Thoughtcrimes
Genre: Challenge: Five Flans Ficathon, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-14
Updated: 2007-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete hates Durham with all the passion born of carefully nurtured dislike, of the uncertainty of not knowing where he was, of the true and certain feeling that he was not <i>home</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Syncopate

Pete hates Durham with all the passion born of carefully nurtured dislike, of the uncertainty of not knowing where he was, of the true and certain feeling that he was not _home_. Each day he wakes up there brings him no closer to getting back, no closer to contentment; he stands in his kitchen each morning and looks out at rooftops that are simply too low for an eye trained always upwards by Manhattan's skyscrapers, her brick and mortar canyons and high blue sky. He'd known who he was in Manhattan—Pete Sherman, CBB's rising young star, tipped for the top, the guy with the bright future and the hot girlfriend—but here in Durham, he knows nothing more than that he's Pete Sherman, newly single, exiled and lonely; a stranger hurrying to work each morning the wrong way down a street of people who walk too slowly, who speak with a cadenced drawl that seems designed to set Pete's every nerve on edge.

He swears loudly when he realises that he's heading away from the offices, snarling at the woman who chastises him for such language in public; curses his own lateness as he cuts back down an alleyway in what he thinks is the right direction. He finally spots the bright brick facade of CBB at ten to eight, shoulders slumping a little in relief. It leaves him just enough time to duck into the nearest coffee shop and buy the largest cup they have of the cheap, burnt stuff they pass off as dark roast.

He ducks back out in five minutes, mentally running through the morning's pitch to Nina, the one that he's sure will get him back to New York, and he's distracted enough that he doesn't see the couple walking in the opposite direction. Pete's arm jolts, and the contents of his cup go flying, drenching his hand and arm, and the other man's shirt.

Pete hisses and cradles his scalded hand—whatever else you can say about the coffee here, it's certainly hot—and says "God, I'm sorry, I didn't see you. You okay?"

He looks up at the other guy—tall as he is, wearing a sober suit that's at odds with messy, dark hair and the crooked tie. The tie is now a limp, sodden red; the woman with him is dabbling at it ineffectually with a tissue. "Brendan," she's saying, a familiar, scolding tone to his voice that Pete remembers from his older sisters, "only you could bring _multiple_ ties with you on a trip and ruin them all by the third day."

"Relax, it'll come out," the other guy—Brendan—says, wrestling the tissues from her and scrubbing at the tie briefly before dumping the damp wad in the nearby trash can. "No harm no foul, right?" he says, looking at Pete, a tiny grin on his face that's matched by the warmth in his eyes.

"Sure," Pete says, momentarily thrown—he doesn't have many people in his life who approach the world like that, with no plausible smoothness in their expressions, no guile to their voice. "Sorry, again. I was just in a rush. I'd better..." He gestures vaguely in the direction of his office.

Course," Brendan says, his smile easy, "No problem"; he nods, the woman smiles, and they turn and walk away.

Pete looks after them for a moment, before shaking himself because he's late, shit, and Nina's going to kill him; he still pauses for a moment, though, before he disappears into the CBB offices and looks back down the block. Brendan and his companion are standing outside a bookshop a little further down the street; Brendan's looking away, but the woman is looking right at Pete, a growing smile on her face. As Pete watches, she stretches up on her tip-toes to whisper something in Brendan's ear, and the look on her face is mischievous.

Pete doesn't quite know why his cheeks feel hot as he scurries inside the building.

* * *

Pete's late, and Nina's pissed. That seems to set the pattern for the day—frustration and dead ends, potential clients who decide in favour of their rivals, actual clients who weren't happy with their proposals. Pete's known as 'the Killer' because of his ability to close down any deal, but around lunch time, he's running his hands through his hair in exasperation and wondering if it might just be a reference to his desire for flat-out homicide.

Of course, he thinks, as Nina's words become steadily more barbed, tipped with acid, he might end up the murder victim in a twist of irony that's as vicious as any his life has thrown him lately. He imagines his body being found in a dumpster in whatever passes for the wrong side of town in Durham, and has to go splash water on his face in the men's room to recover himself.

"Pete, my friend," he says to his reflection in the mirror over the sink, "You're losing it."

He spends the rest of the day in his office, drafting and redrafting campaigns. He thinks of possible promo ideas, potential plans of attack; tries not to think of Lainey, of home, of hazel eyes and a warm smile; and by the time six o' clock rolls around and Rick suggest they pack it in and go grab a beer, Pete's more than willing. In fact, he's outside the building before Rick, an occurrence so rare that Rick raises both eyebrows and says "Man, I'm buying the beer."

Rick buys him beer. And then vodka, and tequila, and shots of some stuff that Pete can't recognise, but it's brightly coloured and sticky-sweet and burns as he swallows. Rick slaps him on the back and tells him that it'll cure whatever ails him, before leaving a fifty with the bartender and ordering her to get Pete drunk enough to loosen whatever's stuck up his ass.

Pete flips him off amiably, watching from his seat at the bar while Rick heads off to liven up an almost-empty dance-floor. Just like back in New York, Rick's got droves of women up dancing with him in minutes, drawn in by his easy manner, his expansive laugh. They're all beautiful when they dance with him, heads thrown back, bodies moving, and Pete finds that he can't stop looking.

After a moment, he squints and looks closer—Rick's dancing with someone he recognises, the woman from this morning. She's tiny next to Rick, but just as energetic as he is, dark hair haloing her face, a wide grin lighting up her pretty features. Pete's curiosity is just starting to make itself felt through the haze of alcohol in his blood, idly wondering what she's doing here, whether that guy—Brendan—is here with her, when he hears someone talk to him.

"Did you make it in time?" Pete looks around to see Brendan standing there, head tilted to one side, smiling at him lazily, hands in his pockets. The business suit is gone, and the coffee-stained shirt, replaced with a pair of dark grey pants and a charcoal-coloured sweater; his hair, if at all possible, is wilder. He looks... Pete shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

The guy sticks out his hand for Pete to shake. "I'm Brendan, by the way. Brendan Dean."

"Pete Sherman. And no, I was kinda late." Pete shrugs. "But no big deal. It's been..."

"One of those days?" Brendan suggests with a smile.

"More like one of those weeks. _Months_," Pete replies, and he's just sober enough to be aware of the slurred edge to his words, the too-careful shape of his vowels. "I should go... Go." He wants to say 'go home', but that doesn't apply here, not yet, maybe not ever, so he settles for sliding off the bar stool. He's pleased with himself to find that he's mostly steady on his feet.

Brendan looks like he wants to say something, but bites it back, pausing before he says, tentatively, "Would you like to dance?"

"Dance?"

"Yeah, dance. You know, moving rhythmically to music?" Brendan makes some kind of gesture in mid-air. It's probably supposed to mimic some form of dance, though Pete can't think what; his focus is on Brendan's hands, anyway. They're strong looking, big, with long, square-tipped fingers.

"Freya and that friend of yours are already out there dancing up a storm," Brendan coaxes, "It'd be a shame if we didn't get to, well. Shame ourselves in comparison." Pete squints out at the dance floor where Rick and Freya are dancing arm in arm now, something Latin and lush, then back at Brendan, whose smile has taken on a tinge of something wicked.

"C'mon," he says, "Live a little."

Pete's mouth opens, ready to give a blunt _no_, because that's the kind of refusal he gave for years to guys back in New York; he surprises himself by saying yes.

Brendan doesn't delay long once he's got his answer, taking Pete by the hand and leading him in the direction of the music. He'd talked about dancing with Rick and Freya, but Pete soon realises that he has no intention of any such thing; Brendan's steering him with hips and hands towards one of the darker corners of the bar, where the music's still loud but the couples are dancing slowly, twined together.

Pete finds that his head is clearing of alcohol, the fog in his mind chased away by awkwardness, by nerves, by the little thrill that zings through him every time Brendan brushes against him. Pete's not used to dancing with someone as tall as him, as broad, someone who's so obviously interested in him; not used to placing his hand in someone else's and trusting them to lead.

They move together to the beat for a little while, Pete trying his best to breathe, to relax, before he's able to look up and say "Why did you ask me to dance?"

The expression on Brendan's face is a curious mixture of humour and an odd kind of perception. "Freya likes you," is all he says, which seems an odd kind of non sequitur, but Pete's willing to go with it, especially when Brendan continues, "And I kind of like you, too. Even if you do have a tendency to scald me with hot coffee."

"Hey!" Pete says, "One time is hardly a tende—" His words are cut off by Brendan's mouth, which is warm and soft against his. Gentle, gentle, coaxing his lips to open, hands coming up to cradle his head, tongue stroking smooth into his mouth; teeth biting gently at his lower lip, hips rocking slow and steady against his; a strength and a solidity that Pete arches into, suddenly shameless; a low and heady buzz of arousal that floods through his veins, as potent as any of the drinks Pete's downed tonight; and he's never been kissed like this before, not ever.

"Oh," he says when Brendan pulls away, when Brendan strokes a thumb over the pulse at his neck. Pete's a verbal creature, normally, someone who revels in words and language, the means to communicate and the means to cajole, but he finds that he has nothing to answer something like _this_—someone who barely knows him, but who can kiss him like that, make him feel like this.

"Yeah." Brendan's grin is almost sheepish, and Pete watches how his gaze flicks away for a moment to the other side of the bar. Pete follows his line of sight to see that Freya and Rick are looking right at them, with identical shit-eating grins on their faces. Pete rolls his eyes at them.

Freya just gives them both a very enthusiastic thumbs up, clearly almost overcome with a fit of giggles. Rick spins her around in his arms, before yelling across the club, "Pete, my man! I knew you marched to the beat of a different drummer! Welcome to the dark side."

"Oh my god," Pete groans, letting his aching head fall forward to rest against Brendan's shoulder. "I'm never going to hear the end of this."

"Do you want to?" he hears Brendan say; his voice is a welcome rumble against Pete's cheek.

Pete looks up at him. "Maybe," he says, because Pete's never been slow to take what he wants, but right now he doesn't really know _what_ he wants. "No. I don't know yet, but... maybe not."

"Decent odds," Brendan says, "I can work with that." He takes Pete's hands in his, palm to palm and fingers intertwined, and they dance on.


End file.
